


War Takes Everything

by StumpyTPDimples



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: A bit of fun for me!, Bucky is a cutie!, Drama, F/M, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, War AU, Why is that an automatic tag.. Why are people so mean to Clint!?, World War II, Yeah Clint needs a hug tag might work here too.., i guess, not the characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-06-07 05:58:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6788776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StumpyTPDimples/pseuds/StumpyTPDimples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All he wanted was to be a soldier. But that would never end well, would it? A.K.A What would happen if Clint and Natasha were actually back in WW2. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Idea popped into my head and decided to put it here aswell! Will get my other stories up here eventually!  
> Let me know what you think!

#####  _March, 1943. 2254 hrs. London, England._

"What do you think, Barton?"

He downed the glass of whisky in front of him, ignoring his S.O. for a moment longer to signal to the bar keep for another. Only when he downed that glass and had a lit cigarette between his lips did he acknowledge his existence.

"With all due respect, sir.. It's bullshit."

He could hear Coulson give a small chuckle and when he looked to his side he saw his handler – for lack of a better or more appropriate term – slide onto the stool next to him. He held up two fingers to the bar keep.

Clint took a drag of his cig and looked away once more. Handler wasn't really the military term for what he was nor was it the personal term that would sum up what Phil Coulson was to Clint Barton.

Father would fit that more. But that's a story for another day.

It was only when a pint was in front of each of them and he was near the end of his smoke that Phil broke the silence between them.

"Tell me; how long have you been an agent for us?"

"Too long." He replied dryly. He loosened his tie a little when it got too warm in the pub for him. He seriously hated the dress uniform, but that meeting – as disastrous as it was – called for it.

"And a sharpshooting genius?" He continued.

Clint knew without even looking that he was smirking.

He shrugged, took a swig of his pint, and finally looked to Phil. How could he wear that uniform all day every day without exploding?

"Longer again." Clint finally replied when Phil stared at him for an answer.

Agent, spy, assassin, merc, criminal, orphan. Clint had been all of them and Phil knew for exactly how long each.

To the U.S military though he was one simple word; weapon.

He just hoped to change that with the meeting today and was a little bummed that it didn't work in his favour.

A hand was on his shoulder to draw him out of his thoughts, but he looked away from the smiling Phil and to the pint in his hands instead.

"Why do you think we'd give you up then?"

Clint shrugged. He was expendable – the council told him that plenty of times. So why not give him up? Why not send him off and hopefully never hear from him again? They hated him. Always have and always will. Not Phil though. Never Phil.

"Besides – I have it on good authority that Erskine already has his mind made up. Some kid from Brooklyn he ran in to. Even before camp starts he knows who he wants as the man. So, why would we send you when that would take you from more important work for two weeks?"

"Men are dying over there, Phil." He kept his voice low just like his gaze was. He downed the last of his drink and reached for his hat. He knew Phil was looking at him but didn't return the favour as he stood. "I just wanted a chance to do the same. To help. I wanted to be more than a bow and arrow, a rifle. I wanted to be more than just Hawkeye – the deadly shadow that even the allies fear."

He left the money for his tab on the bar as he spoke, but turned to leave before Phil could even respond. "You guys stole that from me."

He ignored the call of his name, ignored it once more when he stepped out to the cold London air. He loved his job, he loved knowing that in some small way he was making a difference. Being a spy meant he got information that sometimes changed the way a battle would end or that would set up the next mission to stop a battle before it even began. He loved taking out the bad guys before they had a chance to kill or capture or any negative outcome from war that could happen to his allies. He loved seeing men return to their wives, loved seeing the look on people's faces when they realised they were saved from certain death.

He loved it.

But he wasn't a soldier. He didn't feel like a soldier. He didn't deserve to wear this uniform, and right now, he didn't even want to.

The only time he stopped was halfway down the pretty much empty street when a different voice reached his ears.

"Barton! A word please!"

He sighed and halted. He straightened his tie so he wouldn't get his ass handed to him before turning to walk the way he just came.

He locked eyes with Phil for just a moment before the older soldier shrugged and looked to the lady next to him. Coulson set him up in the worst possible way!

Clint knew the lady well. She was the one who told him about the project in the first place, the one who thought that he'd be perfect for it. She was his partner for a while before she got brought up to the bigger leagues.

She was also – suddenly – the reason why he didn't get a chance to prove himself like he wanted.

"Agent Carter." He nodded politely as he stood to attention in front of her.

The look she gave him was a mix he only saw once – when he was holed up in a safe house with her and a poison running through his system that made even blinking agonisingly painful.

"Since when are you the respectful subordinate?" She asked with an eyebrow delicately raised and he just shrugged.

"Since you threw your best friend under the bus after getting his hopes up."

The sigh she gave made him think maybe she didn't actually realise what she did. But come on, how could she not? She glanced at Phil and he handed across a file. Had he always had that with him? Clint couldn't recall.

"Things change, Clint.."

"Yeah; Erskine finds a new toy boy so all of you back the hell off in case he pulls out." He cut her off with a frown, and her gaze shifted back to Phil.

Coulson shrugged apologetically. Guess Clint wasn't supposed to be told that little fact.

"That was a setback.." She replied slowly. She looked to Clint once more and waited for a young couple to pass before she went on. "We're sending some soldiers who need to be taken down a peg or two after passing out of training on top. Cocky little SOB's who need to lose once in their lives. Yes, we're sure that Mr. Rogers will be chosen by Erskine anyway, but we're not prepared to lose you for a number of weeks knowing this."

"So what's the point in the camp if you already have your man?" He asked with an eyebrow raised. Phil just waved his hand in dismissal though before Peggy spoke again.

"None of your concern, Corporal. This, however, is." She waved the folder in front of him with a smirk. Her way of saying that it's a mission for him and him alone.

He didn't play their usual chase game with it though – in no mood for it today – so he just swiped it from her hands and opened it. Too dark in the street to fully see anything written. But it gave him something other than his two traitorous friends to look at.

"There's a unit- the 107th – being deployed tomorrow." Phil started before Peggy continued.

"Already has a sniper in its ranks – a sergeant. He'll be given your file and you'll be placed under his care."

"He not good enough for you, sweetheart?" He asked with a teasing grin. He was a little happier knowing he's being deployed to an actual army base! That's all he wanted really!

"He's just fine really." She simply replied. "But we worry if we gave him this that he would lack the experience to do the hit cleanly – if he accepted it at all."

A hit.. He wasn't being deployed to play soldier at all..

"A mission?" Clint asked with a frown, looking up from the file to look at the pair in front of him in turn. "That's why you ruined my chances at being something great? To act junior recruit to some second-rate-sniper and take out some low grade Nazi under radar? Really?"

"Will you ever get it through your head that you're already something great?" Peggy asked through a sigh. She pinched the bridge of her nose – he knew it as the 'For the love of all bloody hell Barton!' annoyed tell of hers.

He just pointed to the lack of medals – even a service one – above his heart before looking back at the file in his hands. "Officially I'm nothing."

"Official means bloody nothing, Clint. Don't let them asses get you thinking that!" Carter snapped and it gave him a smirk.

Coulson gave a low chuckle by her side too. She was way too protective of him and the council hated it! He loved winding her up with their words!

There was no way he'd turn down a mission though, no matter how pissed he was at them.

"Come on you idiot." She chuckled a moment later, linking her arm with his before pulling him down the street. "Howard has a while list of fun toys to keep you safe. Better than losing you to some experiment accident."

"Awh, would you miss me Peg?" He smirked, teasing.

She laughed out; "You wish, soldier."


	2. Always be a little afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actual first chapter. Let me know what you think!   
> By the way; I DISCLAIM EVERYTHING!

#####  _November 1943. 1242 hrs._

Vanilla.

The sweet and simple scent was mixed with something else. Something stronger and sharper, something screaming for him to defend himself, something that he's smelled a million times before and probably will a million times again.

He couldn't place the name. But vanilla he could pick out.

The scent drifted past his nostrils – causing his senses to twitch back into life one after another.

He knew what the damn scent was. It was on the tip of his tongue, at the forefront of his mind, even as he struggled to regain consciousness.

Consciousness. Why did he have to regain what he shouldn't have lost?

Slowly, Clint tried to open his eyes. He found them heavy and unyielding, refusing to listen to him.

_Stubborn bastards.._

Just like bringing his sense of smell back had done, trying to bring back his sight brought his other senses more to life. It meant he was suddenly aware of pain.

Everywhere.

No, it started somewhere. It had to. When he focused a little more he found it – throbbing slowly yet intensely – starting at the side of his neck and running deep into his spine.

_What the hell would cause that?_

Another pain throbbed in his calf, as if jealous that he only paid attention to the one on his neck. That one was hell.

He tried once more and, eventually, his left eye sprang open. The flash of light from the unyielding sun forced him to close it quickly after.

_Ok, count to three. You can do this._

At three it opened again and caught sight of someone above him before a horrible wave of pain cause it to shut.

A woman. Bright red hair. All that he could gather right now.

_Ok, it's ok.. Just.. Where the hell am I? Who the hell is that and what the hell happened?_

He tried to calm by taking a deep breath but it just ended in a fresh wave of pain racing down his back.

_Screw it,_ he thought, _now or never!_

He forced both eyes to open while he had the will power to.

The woman was leaning over him. Bright green eyes. She was staring into his own ones, that's why it was the first and only thing he noticed. They were set above full red lips, they were saying something, but he couldn't catch it right now while he tried adjust his sight.

Her hair held Clint's attention the most though. It couldn't be natural, could it?

He started to speak – tried to at least. It was the first time he could safely say that he could actually feel the words travel from his brain and to his throat.

"I.. I.." He started, but it caused a different – and equally terrible – pain to spread through his neck and had him choking on whatever other words were part of that sentence.

A finger – thin and elegant – came to rest gently on his lips. "Don't speak. You're hurt." She said.

But he never listened to reason.

"I.." He tried again. She cut him off.

"You're hurt." She repeated, firmer this time. Like he couldn't have guessed that already. "I have to get you to the car.."

Whatever then. It was way too painful for Clint to speak anyway. The jabbing in his neck was getting worse and his calf was numb but felt on fire at the same time.

It was a pain he experienced before. A bullet. He didn't know when or how he knew that, but the knowledge was hidden there somewhere in his mind.

She had to get him to the car. _What car?_

He started to turn on his shoulders to see if he could spot it. He was lying in a ditch of some sort. Baked, cracked earth lay beneath him and the dust around the area made breathing that bit more difficult. There was a slight breeze that gave the smallest of breaks from the fierce sun above.

Nothing but a bleak landscape, completely empty. He soon spotted the car sitting a few feet away – a make shift road.

Somewhere in the States. That was his guess. His general knowledge was there, he knew that it had to be the U.S based on the landscape and sun, and the slight twinge in the woman's accent. His general knowledge was fine, but..

"Come on." The woman said. It took him from his thoughts, dragged him from them really. He found he couldn't concentrate on much at all for too long. "You need some help.."

Clint let her arm slip around his waist. He didn't expect that she'd have the strength to lift a man of his size. She looked of normal build for a woman of her age, but he looked of above average build for a man of his.

_But.. What age is that..?_

He felt dizzy and his vision started to blur as he started to rise to his feet. She did help, and she proved to be a good leaning post as he started making his way across the dirt plane.

His left leg was screaming at him in pain with each slight movement, his breathing was ragged and the loss of just how much blood had his energy sapped. Unconsiousness was coming once more and he found himself clinging to the woman a little tighter.

He was going to die. That much was certain. But still the woman supported him and led him towards the car on the dirt track.

_Ten yards._

_Even on a fucked up leg you should make that.._

The door of the car was left open and when he reached it – completely and totally warn out and with the sure knowledge that he would be happy to lose the fucking leg sending fire through him – she helped him climb into the passenger side.

The car just made the heat worse. If it was 30 degrees outside, surely in here it was closer to 40 and it made sweat mix with whatever amount of dirt and blood already coating Clint's body.

He let his head fall back as the woman started the car. He fought to keep his eyes open, but each blink took longer and longer to open once more.

He winced as he lift his foot up onto the dash, happy to take the weight off of it. The nerves were just screaming at him at this point. He dared a glance to the woman beside him and frowned a little.

She was gripping the steering wheel as tight as anything that could be used as a lifeline. Sweat was rolling off her skin, but it didn't look like the kind that would come from heat.

No.

She was scared.

And who could blame her? He hadn't a clue what had happened, but in this day and age finding someone shot up on the side of the road would send anyone into a feared state.

He couldn't help it. His head lolled a little to the side and this time when he blinked he didn't really want to open his eyes.

Unconsciousness, Clint knew, was just moments away. And he didn't think there was any way to stop it.

The only thing he could hope for – as the car picked up speed along the dirt road – was that this woman was a friendly and he could stay alive until they got wherever the hell they were going.

A new sound kicked his senses into over drive, a new found source of energy following. It was vicious and sharp – metal digging into metal.

Clint knew it. He's heard it before a thousand times. A bullet.

The car had just been hit with a bullet.

He looked across to the woman with new found attention. She was gripping the wheel even tighter, trying to straighten the car as the bullet winged its side.

The car was swerving violently and it had Clint dizzy once more.

He couldn't tell where it was coming from. A sniper? Another vehicle? He couldn't tell and it made him panic.

"Evade." He snapped at her. Something was coming to the front of his mind, some urge that showed him tactics and manoeuvres. "You have to evade!"

God damn the shouting hurt his throat like hell!

"Unless you want to die; keep still you idiot!" She screamed back. There was a different accent twinge there, but now wasn't the time.

He'll die anyway if she doesn't fucking drive properly!

He could hear a motor and that made him turn round. The motion followed with the feel of fresh blood seeping down his neck. He must have disturbed whatever scab had started to form.

He couldn't afford any more blood loss dammit!

A bike was on their trail. He didn't know the make – never being one for bikes – but hell it looked fast! It could probably overtake this rust bucket in a heartbeat but it stayed steady behind them.

His vision was too blurry to make out its owner, but he could definitely make out the weapon raised in his right hand.

He wished he had.. Something. What was it he wished for? His fingertips itched for it.

Clint's eyes went a little wide when the biker suddenly swayed, and half a second later another shot hit the car. The car swayed once more at the impact. He was getting closer with his shot, this one cutting a nice gash in the driver's side door.

"A gun." Clint spat, looking back to the woman. "Do you have one?"

She shook her head. Fucking great.

"Then I'm driving." He snapped, and once more she shook her head – a little more forcefully this time. "I'm driving!"

The woman turned to face him at the second insistence – definite anger in her eyes.

"You couldn't even walk straight, no way am I letting you drive!" She spat back at him. A bead of sweat ran from her forehead onto her face.

"Fuck walking – I don't need strength to fucking drive and we're dead with you behind the wheel! So move or be moved!"

The car swerved again. Another bullet. Hitting the back this time. Soon enough the man would definitely send one through the windscreen and through his target.

He didn't wait for her reply to his ultimatum. Clint moved swiftly across the front seat, pushing the woman away and taking hold of the wheel. He left some blood spatters across her shirt but that's the least of either of their worries right now.

"Fine!" She conceded angrily. "You drive! Kill yourself for all I care!"

They'd have to switch places. This was a tricky task on the best of days, but while under fire and with one of the pair just having woken with two bullet holes and no blood it made it all the more difficult.

Still though, they meshed together flawlessly and managed it in two fluid movements – her foot eased off the accelerator and one hand off the wheel. Clint grabbed it with both and pushed himself over her lap while she shifted under.

A moment – and a lot of swerving and cursing – later, they were traded and Clint has his foot slammed down on the accelerator.

Outside was a blurry mess, and without even voicing his concerns the woman reached across to rip his shirt and use it as a make shit tourniquet for both his injuries.

Another bullet flew past and he let out a surprised curse. He had to plan. There was a plan there somewhere, he just had to find it.

"How many is that?" She asked quickly, trying off the shirt around his leg as she spoke.

It took him a moment to realise she meant bullets.

"Four." He replied after thinking for a moment. He glanced at her before back out on to the road. It seemed never ending. "You got something? Cause I sure as hell don't!"

"It only holds six." She replied in a shout. The sounds as the sped along meant she had to speak loud to be heard. She was looking back the biker, he guessed that she could actually see the gun whereas he was too fucked to. "He only has two more bullets."

Two more bullets.

That was all he needed, really. The law of averages meant that sooner or later it would hit his mark, and even if the biker stopped to reload the machine he was on would catch up with the car in no time.

_Wait him out._

_Wait him out, make him waste them, catch him on the reload._

_That could work._

He started swerving the car a little to try make the target that little more difficult. Might be a big one, but damn he'd make it a difficult one!

He had to steady up slightly when it started to make him feel sick. And that was all the biker needed to send another bullet their way.

The woman let out a surprised shout as this time it hit the back windscreen - shattering the glass into a thousand pieces and sending it cascading forward across the pair of them. It cut the back of his neck, sending fresh warm blood down from the little wounds. Great.

Made no difference. He already lost too much blood, so what's a little more in the long run?

The woman let out a painful hiss and he panicked. A quick glance and a reach over with his hand confirmed his suspicion – a nice big chunk of glass had embedded itself in the top of her neck. It would be hell to take out, but should be fine.

"It's fine." She hissed, carefully swatting his hand away so he took the wheel once more. "One more bullet."

How the hell was she this calm?

Without asking anything, he nodded. She must have the same idea. Glancing in the mirror and saw that bike a steady ten yards behind them – just like the start of their chase.

_Not a bad shot, pal.._

Another time and another place, Clint would admire this tactic. No set up, no waiting, and no hoping the target would come to the exact spot you need them. Just chase and shoot wildly until one of those little devils blew the targets brains out. Not subtle, but in the middle of nowhere you really didn't need subtle.

He increased his speed and he noticed the bike do the same.

This was going to be a long chase, and that was something Clint couldn't have. He didn't have the time to live something like that.

"There." She simply pointed out a spot where the car could easily skid. He had to smirk a little. They didn't even know each other's name, knew nothing about each other, and yet here she was either reading his mind or just being so in sync that she had the exact same plan.

One bullet left, one chance. He was getting this fucker to a whole new level of cocky then destroying him.

He took a deep breath and tapped the break for a moment, taking the time to gather all the strength he had remaining into his shoulders and arms.

Then, he threw himself into action.

_One chance. Either kill or be killed._

His right hand wretched the steering wheel hard while his left reached for the handbrake, pulling it sharply to send the car to a vicious skidding halt. He now thanked the heat of the day because it made the manoeuvre that little easier and smoother.

The woman by his side was holding onto the roof and the dash without him even needing to say to. Still, she was thrown a little sideways and he found himself glancing at her to make sure she was ok.

He glanced to his right and grinned as the biker sped on by. The surprise and speed of the turn meant that the biker had no time to react and simply flew on past.

He needed to be behind the bike. The bike could beat the car on speed and agility. But compare the two on strength and weight and the car was a god damn tank!

"Head down." He hissed to the woman. He started to push the accelerator, getting all the energy he could into the engine before even thinking of taking off the handbrake. "He has one shot at me and if he misses I don't want it going in you!"

She complied, head going beneath the dash in an instant.

He once more summoned the strength into his shoulders as the bike began turning around. Releasing the handbrake sent the car surging forward and Clint had to very quickly turn the wheel to get back on track.

_One shot. One kill._

Everything mixed into one had concentration slipping. His foot was jabbed hard against the pedals, whole body shaking and straining to keep the wheel straight. But he had to ignore it all. He had to get them out of here alive.

He could see the bike sixty yards ahead of them. The turn on the biker's part was completed using military precision. He was speeding towards the car with his gun raise once more.

It worked. Get the bastard to whole new levels of cocky. Clint couldn't see the man's expression, couldn't even make out any features of his face, but he just knew that the way the man opened throttle and sped up towards them, the way he remained steady and unmoving with his aim, just told Clint that there wasn't a single trace of fear or doubt in the man's mind.

_That's your mistake, pal. Always be a little afraid._

"Brace yourself!" Clint screamed to the woman over the sound of the overheating engine. He too ducked his head when – at around 20 yards – the last bullet was fired. It hit the windscreen, sending fresh glass over the pair to join the previous glass, but thankfully that was the only pain either of them registered.

He'd take a few shards of glass over a bullet any day!

He didn't let up on the accelerator, didn't slow down at all. He raised his head once more and saw the bike ahead of them start to waiver. He was making the decision to run, but it was too little too late.

Clint held steady as the biker tried turn, dust kicking up as the bike skidded to near uncontrollable levels.

_Ten yards._

The bike just about managed to make the turn, but it struggled to regain traction and that momentary stall meant all the difference.

_Five yards._

"Got him." Clint muttered with a smirk, bracing his hands on the wheel for the coming impact.

_Three yards._

He lost sight of the biker, but the front wheels shooting up and the sound of metal on metal told Clint exactly where he was.

That impact alone should kill any man, but the back wheels landing on him after the front slammed down would ensure it. Clint was slightly thrown from the driver's seat and nearly onto the woman beside him who had managed to brace herself. His head hit painfully off the roof but he didn't really feel it with the amount of adrenaline in his system.

When the car fully landed the engine stalled and went into a skid. He tried use the last bit of his energy to bring it to a smooth stop and he just about managed it before the car went completely into the scrub.

He didn't look back at the biker. He didn't need to, didn't want to. He kept his hands firmly on the wheel even though the car had stopped and tried to calm his breathing.

He aimed for Clint. Someone was out to kill him, and it looked like they wouldn't stop until it was done.

The woman next to him straightened up and he soon felt her hand on his back.

She looked back for him and the way she let out a breath told him all he needed to know. The biker was dead.

That thought had all energy leaving him. He couldn't tell what hurt the most, couldn't decide where all the blood was coming from but there was lot of it. He slumped down in his seat a little and let his arms fall to his side

He was losing concentration, losing vision. He was losing and the pain was winning.

Suddenly, he felt the woman tug him a little, and he let her lead him in the process of switching seat's. A lot easier than before.

"I need to get you help.." She whispered when the trade-off was complete, and Clint had no intention of resisting.

He let his head fall to rest in the space between the two front seats as she started up the car again. His eyes closed without him noticing, and he couldn't for the life of him get them to open again.

He felt her hand brush across his forehead, gauging his temperature? Whatever she was doing, he was grateful for the touch. Grateful for her being there.

There was nothing more terrifying than dying alone. And right now, Clint was pretty sure he was going to die in this car.

"Who am I..?" He whispered, the question finally making its way to the front of his mind.

"I don't know." She replied. That was how he knew the words tumbled out rather than remaining in his mind. "All I know is you need help. Who are you?"

He shook his head slightly, trying to ward off the darkness.

He could feel himself growing colder even in the humid air of the car. He gripped her hand hard when it went to feel the pulse on his wrist, and there was no way in hell he was letting go.

"I don't know.." He whispered, finally letting unconsciousness take him.


	3. Bucky to friends

#####  _March, 1943. 0837hrs. U.S. Military 107th Infantry Regiment camp_

The 107th.

Clint Barton could officially say he had been to war. While most guys sitting in this truck right now held solemn and depressed faces, Clint just couldn't keep the smile off of his.

He wasn't an agent right now, technically at least. He wasn't known as SSR or agent or Hawkeye - nothing like that. Technically undercover, but this was the best undercover mission he could ever be given. He'd have to play newbie, he'd have to learn to shoot again from someone he could probably out-shoot blindfolded, but he didn't seem to care.

He could now say that he took part in this war and would proudly scream that fact from rooftops for the rest of his days.

The vehicle shuddered to a halt and he was first to grab his bag and jump from the back. A grin broke out at the sight that greeted Clint. Tents set up to mimic a small village, soldiers running drills or playing ball or just having a general laugh. Weapons were freely around, tanks and armoured cars made their way past like it was the most normal thing in the world and for the first time in a long time he felt like he was home.

Naturally, some eyes fell on him and the 15 other new comers as they all started to make their way from the truck and onto the dry earth below. They were all chattering among themselves, knowing each other from previous deployment or from their camps. Clint didn't care. He was the only one coming in from a completely different background and he found that he really didn't want to make friends.

He wanted to fight and win the war so he could prove himself – so he could prove he belonged as a soldier all along. So people would believe in him for once for something other than ensuring a bullet found someone's head.

"Attention!" He instantly snapped to attention at the call, a wind carrying across the words that he found a lot less chilling than the voice it brought. An older Colonel walked their way with a look of annoyance, boredom, like they already completely failed whatever expectations he held for the line of troops in front of him. "Colonel Phillips. The men in this unit here are the best of the best. I wouldn't have it any other way, I don't have time for anything other than perfection. I expect nothing less from you lot. I won't baby you, won't hold your hand while you cry for momma. So if that's what you want - go find the Germans."

Clint honestly had to stop himself from smirking at the Colonel's comments. Some of these beside him seemed like the types that would need that. Men crying for mothers, begging to leave, while he couldn't really imagine someone wanting to run away from a fight he couldn't help but wonder how many times this Colonel has seen just that.

"We're mere hours walking time from the front lines here in the 107th. Hours from the fight of your lives and I'll tell you now; either tell me you're ready to probably go lay down your life or you're being sent home to help collect scrap metal to make the weapons for those who are more than willing!" The others may have snickered at Phillips' comment, but Clint just smiled a little sadly.

Honestly, if he wasn't the best shot out there that's exactly what he'd be doing. He was small, only holding an unnatural amount of strength because of years of taking people out with a bow and arrow. He had no birth cert, no family, he didn't even have enough information about himself to fill out even half the enlistment form to get here. His hearing was shot to all hell, old injuries from childhood restricted some movements, and he won't even go into his mental state!

Collecting scrap would have been his only helpful contribution to this war with all of that piled against him. If it weren't for Coulson finding his sorry ass and Carter giving him a chance.

"Soldiers to tent three. Specialists to ten nine. Dismissed."

They all gave a salute to the Colonel before grabbing their gear bags and all leaving their separate ways. Clint threw his over his shoulder and grabbed the case containing his weapons. He turned to go find the tent before the chilling voice stopped him.

"Barton."

"Sir." Clint turned to face Phillips again. He gave Clint a curious look before nodding for him to follow.

He did so, falling into step with his commanding officer as they headed towards the tent he would be staying in.

"Carter told me all about you." He started when they got to a place where there weren't as many soldiers to overhear. It was a little awkward walking in the silence – especially after the curious look which Clint now realised is probably because Carter's intel probably started with 'Don't expect any respect from the little shit..'. "I think they made a mistake. From first looks - you would have made a damn fine Super Soldier and this kid Erskine picked isn't going to win me over. It got you here though so I'm glad."

"Thank you, sir." Clint couldn't tell if it was a compliment but he had to be polite about it.

"I got your mission brief and I suppose I understand why you're here. Sure, Barnes is good. Great even. He's been in the lead for more missions than I can count and is honestly one of the main reasons we're pushing north rather than south. He's a leader, but knows when to follow. He has a near perfect shot, patient, relaxed, everything you want a sniper to be. But-"

"He's too nice." Clint concluded the trail of thought - trail of complete obsession on the Colonel's part. Clint's seen it before - the personal profile that Phillips just laid out infront of him. A perfect sniper has to have all the skills but also no thought or worries about using them. It's why there's not many perfect sniper's out there.

"He's too nice." Phillips confirmed with a nod. "We need your skills more than you know. I'll be leaving tonight for the Rebirth programme but I trust you'll follow through with your mission, agent."

"Yes, sir."

Play sniper while trying to find the head of Hydra. Not a simple mission. But when he thought about it, no missions since this damn war started have been simple. He missed the good ol' days of infiltrating low level crime circuits. But Schmidt and his damn scientist were next to impossible to pin down. If the notes he got from Erskine were true then taking out this monster would end up being the most difficult task of all.

Difficulty was yet to be a problem. It was a test. Hawkeye was yet to fail a mission and he wasn't about to start now.

"If I had a squad like you, Barton, then this war would be won by now! I don't know what Carter was on about with you assessment!" Phillips ended his compliment with a sigh though. Clint glanced at the man beside him to see him glaring holes through a pair of soldiers laughing their way past.

_No respect._

Not everyone here wanted to be here. A lot were drafted. So they didn't give a shit about rules or common superior respect. Phillips seemed to let it slide though, didn't tell the pair off for being out of order, and instead just entered the tent with '9' painted above it.

"At ease." He sighed with a wave of his hand - add impatient to the list of character traits Clint was discovering. He wasn't here to address the men in the tent, so the six men who jumped to attention went back to their business as Clint followed the Colonel towards the back. "Barnes."

The man in question got off his cot once more and stood to attention at the end of it. Clint could now finally get a good look at the Sergeant Peggy had described as the next Hawkeye. He was younger than Clint expected, late 20's at most. Strong build, soldier look to him that had Clint realising exactly how he climbed to Sergeant rank even with this being his first month in battle. His hair was gelled back and appearance neat - he took pride in it. But the bags under his eyes drew Clint's attention more than anything.

Less than a month here actually, but already Barnes held a look that said he's seen way too much shit for someone of his age. A weight was on him. Not physical, but even at attention his shoulders sagged a little. Peg was right – he may have perfect aim and shoot true but if a month did this to him then he probably didn't have the guts and conscious for this job. Well, not without a kick in the ass from a seasoned agent!

"This is Corporal Barton. Leaving him in your care as discussed."

"Sir." Barnes replied with a nod.

Satisfied with that as an answer, Phillips turned and left the tent without another word. Wasn't the warmest of men but leading an army base in these days would probably do that.

"Barton. Got a first name?" Clint instinctively dropped his bag and case before snapping to attention in front of Barnes.

"Clint, sir."

Barnes and the others who were paying enough attention to care actually laughed. It made Clint raise an eyebrow. Did he already do something wrong?

_Dammit Clint, how did you already fuck up being a soldier!?_

"It's James." Barnes said. When he calmed enough to through his laughs anyway. He offered Clint his hand. "Bucky to friends."

Clint had to take a moment to consider this. Maybe being in a unit wasn't as formal as he thought it would be. He'd be fighting with these guys, probably be laying his life on the line for them more times than not.

That never happened in the SSR training camp. Never happened in the office or on hits. Happened on some missions, a few times with Peggy and Coulson but he considered them family so it was easy to take a bullet or cover an explosion. He had to consider these soldiers family, it would seem. Just like they probably would him.

He gave Barnes – Bucky – a smile and shook his hand.

In an instant Clint was pulled into a headlock and he had to stop himself from giving in to his instincts of knocking the Sargent on his ass. He usually would, but Barnes was laughing as he tugged Clint towards the cot opposite. Just a joke.

"Finally another sniper! I won't be alone on those damn hills anymore!"

This was going to be a long mission. He could already tell.

But Clint couldn't hide the smile that thought gave him.

#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~

These guys were idiots.

It's safe to say that anyone who ends up a specialist wanted to and willingly signed up for the military, but that didn't mean that they weren't idiots.

Clint stretched up one hand and caught the glass thrown his way. He didn't even lift his eyes from the book - the details of Schmidt bound to look normal thanks to the ever resourceful Peggy Carter - in his other hand.

"Come on Barton!" One of the men slurred. Difficult to tell which drunk idiot it was because they all sounded the same on scotch. Or whisky. Whatever alcohol it was tonight. "A week here and you haven't even tried! Just one, Punk!"

Boyce. Had to be. He was the only one in the past few days to call him punk.

"Don't drink." Clint said, shrugging. Lie – but he was on mission so he couldn't. He dropped the glass onto his cot and settled back again, casually flicking the page to the next one. "What happened to no alcohol on base anyway?"

"Noob." He scoffed and they all laughed. Clint spared a glance at the larger man. He was annoying but he was one of the best bomb techs the place had. He could wire up an explosive to take out an entire building that was the size of a pen or dismantle a mine in less than 2 minutes. SSR files claim he's been in the business 10 years this year, nothing to be snuffed at, something to be admired actually. But he was also a drunken know-it-all who didn't know when to shut his mouth. "Phillips is gone somewhere God only knows! So Sarge is in charge of us! It's ok, right Barnes?"

Clint raised an eyebrow and glanced at Bucky. The Sergeant was yet to take a drink as well since Clint's been here. He sat on his bunk opposite Clint meticulously cleaning his rifle.

Never mind drink, there was an even more important rule of no weapons on base unless using them for MP patrol. Somehow, Barnes and Barton slipped through that rule. Barnes was constantly checking and cleaning his - more than necessary and could potentially be dangerous to the weapon. Clint had his rifle and bow stashed away under his bed and during inspections no one seemed to give a damn - though no one's seen his bow just yet.

Barnes didn't even lift his gaze, but didn't ignore his subordinate.

"I'm not in charge." He said. Quietly. Clint knew the look. The glaze over his eyes, the set in his shoulders, the concentrated frown and the slow moving fingers. He was engrossed in his weapon, he was making sure it was perfect, making sure it was looked after.

A snipers best friend needed minding so it would save the lives of those its user chose. He couldn't tell the amount of times he's held the exact same expression. They didn't know what they were talking about. Sure, he was yet to see Barnes shoot - but the every day things he did told Clint all he needed to know about the soldiers skill as a sniper.

"But if that's what you think then I say leave Clint alone." He continued. He spared just a glance at Clint as he reassembled his weapon. "We're about to go training so you guys just drink enough for the both of us."

"We are?" Clint asked in slight shock, ignoring the comments from the others at how they can easily have the snipers' share. It was 11pm. Pitch dark and freezing inside – not let alone outside. This would be – as far as Barnes knew – the first time Clint would act sniper.

_And I thought the circus' training was bad.. This guy is nuts.._

"We are." Bucky nodded. He clipped the last piece into place and turned the safety on before jumping up from his cot. "Grab your rifle."

"Yes, sir." Clint nodded. He put his book down and slipped from the cot before reaching under it to drag out the metal case holding his weapon. Barnes was in Sergeant mode, it seemed. So 'sir' just slipped from his lips and there was no correction from the man like there'd usually be. Correct call.

He followed the Sergeant in to the chilly night air and down the path towards the range just outside the base. There were no words, no exchanges, just the sound of their boots as they scuffed against the dry earth beneath.

He's been to this range each night. Sure, this would be the first time officially allowed and with a rifle. But each night at 3:27am when he knew the others were asleep and that there was a significant gap in the patrol teams he'd grab his bow and arrows and would come out here for an hour.

Since when he was young and learning his craft he learned that he couldn't even go a day without feeling the sting of a bow string repeatedly pulling at his finger tips or hearing the 'thwack' as an arrow found its target. It was something he needed in life. Like air or water. And a war wasn't about to stop him.

He had to make himself a target out of a nearby tree though. The place was a simple set up and with possibly only the two of them having the use of it for the next while then he couldn't really shoot arrows into the existing dummies.

He stopped when Barnes came to a stop at the top end of the course. Clint instantly dropped the case and took out the rifle on the top of it. His bow was safely hidden in the bottom compartment.

"Experience?" Asked Barnes.

Clint was busy setting up the rifle and ensuring it was functional so he didn't look up at the Sergeant.

_Oh, you know. Internationally known assassin who's yet to accidentally miss a shot and is just here because they fear you're too soft to take Schmidt out._

Clint took a breath. Barnes was just trying to help what he thought was a newbie. No need to snap.

"A bit at camp." Clint shrugged. Barnes was setting up his rifle right next to Clint's. "I guess I showed something if I was shipped out here to you."

"Guess so if you just set up your rifle quicker than I could." Clint froze at his words – having been in the process of lying behind his assembled weapon.

_A week in and already you've fucked up your cover, Barton!_

He could blend into any situation and any environment. There was a reason he was one of the best spies out there after all. But apparently asking him to dumb down what was second nature to him – almost first nature since it was just as easy as breathing itself – is just the line that he couldn't even try cross.

"Had a good teacher, sir." He replied with a shrug. He finished lying on the ground and positioned the butt against his shoulder like he had a million times before and will a million times again. "Taught me everything about a gun."

When no reply or instructions came from the Sergeant Clint glanced up to him just in time to catch Barnes looking away and lying behind his own weapon. There was a smile Clint couldn't decipher.

"But he didn't teach you to shoot?" Bucky finally asked by his side.

Not a gun, no. No one taught him that.

"He got called away before we could get that far."

"Well let's get started then, punk."

Looking back on it, the method would probably be how he'd do it when or if Clint would be given newbies to teach.

Right now though – he hated Barnes and could see why he wasn't given a proper newbie to teach.

Two hours in the dark and freezing cold night shooting round after round towards a target that any normal person wouldn't have a hope in hell of seeing. Twenty minutes in the rain began to pelt down and hadn't let up. Clint was just in his shirt and thin training pants - it shouldn't have been raining so why would he bother with a jacket!?

His fingers were numb, back was sore, and he had to keep his teeth from chattering so he wouldn't show Barnes any weakness. Still though, Barnes kept throwing him bullets to 'Try again.' over and over. And when he thought that maybe, just maybe, he faked it close enough to satisfy him then the other man would shoot a perfect bullseye and tell Clint to do that.

_Fucking slave driver.._

Clint let a few of the near hundred rounds shot hit somewhere on the dummy and the others sail harmlessly by.

No words were spoken. Not by Clint, at least.

It was the most awkward shooting set up he's ever been in. All Barnes did was watch through his scope and fire a round each time he felt like one upping Clint.

Around the 2 hour 37 minute mark – by Clint's counting – Barnes stood. A moment later an ammo box of about 500 fell by Clint's weapon with a loud bang, causing him to start a little and look up at the man.

"Two hundred to be in those dummies by the time I get back, Barton. See you in the morning."

"Sir?" He asked in shock. Was he really going to leave Clint here to freeze to death as a way of training!?

"Out on field this is a simple ask. We'll be lying around for hours on end so I need to see if you're made of the right stuff for it."

_I am. You're not. You ass._

"Yes, sir." He replied. Bite your tongue, Barton.

Barnes must have accepted that because he simply picked up his weapon and began walking away.

"You have thirty minutes." He said. Clint paused in loading his weapon.

_30 minutes!? For a newbie that's beyond impossible.. He must know that.._

"Should be nothing for you. Stay in this cold and tear those dummies to shreds. Think of it as punishment for lying to me for a week. You're not as good at it as you think, Hawkeye."

A smirk escaped Clint's lips and he nodded even if Barnes wasn't looking.

Ok. Maybe he kind of liked the guy now.


	4. Know how to take a bullet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys are figuring out this layout!  
> Have alot of stories in the works right now but will get through editing and posting this as best I can :)  
> Let me know what you think! Much love

**_November 1943. 1706 hrs._ **

_30 minutes.. For a Hawkeye? What was that dream? The hell did it mean?_

His eyes were reluctant to open even when commanded. There was a sweat laying thick on his forehead and good god if Clint found some water he swore that no matter the amount it wouldn't be enough to quench his throat!

_Keep the image you idiot.. Try remember - and it's gone. Fucking great_.

A room. He didn't recognise it.

He let his eyes fully adjust to the light before sparing a glance at the window. It was closed but still the curtains ruffled. A draft. That's the breeze that alerted him to the sweat even if it was freezing cold in the room.

There was a large yard outside. Just dirt and gravel that kicked up in dust clouds as the wind swept across. A little further away he could make out the shape of a barn in a field.

He was so interested in where he was that he didn't notice the woman in the room until she leaned across him.

_Ok.. Got to get your head in check there.. Name, start with that. Start with.. Name.._

The woman dabbed some disinfectant onto a bit of wool and rubbed it along his arm - cutting off his thoughts completely. A hiss followed a jolt of pain from the action and he tried his best to push her aside.

He needed out of here. Something was wrong, something happened, and he had to figure out what. Had to figure out who the hell tried to kill him.

"Let me." She said firmly. "I'm a nurse."

_A nurse._

Clint looked up and met her eyes, his vision slowly coming back to focus after the jolt of pain had messed it up again.

He's seen her before.. Full red lips set below the brightest green eyes he's ever seen. She was bundled in layers – the end of a dress just sticking out of a few cardigans – simple and beautiful. But it was the hair that held Clint's attention. Bright red that should not be natural. He's definitely seen that before.

"A nurse.." He said through a sigh. Just to hide the pain her dabbing was giving.

"That's right." She practically sang the words. "And you're sick so just let me, ok?"

This definitely wasn't a hospital though. Wasn't a med tent in a unit nor a blindingly white room of a local clinic.

The large windows and cream coloured crumbling paint screamed farm house to him. That barn he spotted just emphasised that idea. He was on a single wooden framed bed and had just one simple sheet laid over him.

Clint lay with his head back against the pillow as she worked. He felt a thick bandage on the side of his neck and beneath it was pulsing a burning hot. His head throbbed in time with it. The beat of pain was dull but steady enough to make it almost impossible to hold a straight thought.

Gun shot. He knew the pain well.

_But how do you know that? What the hell happened? What kind of shit are you involved in?_

She dabbed a fresh batch of disinfectant onto his skin and he nearly screamed at her to back off. She just sent Clint a grin and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

The red.

He knew it.

_A ditch. A truck. A bike._

If he could he would have paled even more.

_Son a bitch. Someone left me there to die, but she took me in. We killed someone.. We fucking killed someone!_

The woman paused when he sent her a look. He knew it was a horrified one but he guessed she took it as a questioning glance and looked as if she was trying to figure out where to start.

"You were shot." She started. Well that was forward! "Twice."

Clint nodded. He had guessed that much really.

"How bad?"

"Once in the neck – that's the worst." She replied. She began cleaning up her supplies as she continued. "Don't think I've ever met someone as lucky as you. Missed your windpipe by about a centimetre I'd say. Nasty, got infected but I cleaned it up and I'll look after it."

She sounded like a nurse. He'd go as far to say doctor. She held a professional mannerism that made him know she knew what the fuck she was talking about. She was able to discuss his injuries with a cold detachment that any civilian would be incapable of doing.

"Second went right into your left calf. Will hurt like a bitch but it's not dangerous. Had to take the bullet out so you can make a necklace of it if you want! Same story as your neck, I'll keep it clean and it'll be fine. Your blood loss is my main worry."

Clint nodded. His mind couldn't handle that much information but he got the general gist – he's fucked unless she stays here with him and he just used up possibly eight of his nine lives.

The sudden gaze the woman fixed him unsettled Clint immensely.

"You're strong." She said softly. "Know how to take a bullet. Most would have died."

_Know how to take a bullet.. Gang member? Soldier? Some kind of criminal? Does she know? Ask, you idiot.._

Clint sighed and tried sit up a bit but the throbbing in his head and a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He closed his eyes and let the woozy feeling pass before he felt a glass held to his lips. He drank the liquid gratefully before looking back up at the woman.

Layers. She was in layers. So the heat Clint felt was definitely a bad fever setting in.

"Few days in bed, lots of rest, and you'll be brand new."

Clint watched how she handled herself with curiosity. She was calm, too calm for someone who found a man nearly dead and shot up in a trench. He knew he wasn't dangerous, he knew he'd never do anything to hurt someone innocent, but surely she didn't know that.

_What's your game..?_

"Who are you?" He whispered. He didn't realise that he spoke the words until the red head paused in placing the water back on the bedside cabinet.

She shot him a small smile before sitting carefully on the side of his bed.

"I'm sorry. I was a little too busy assessing you to introduce myself, Clint. Natasha. Natasha Romanoff."

_Clint._

The name fit. It stirred something. He knew it. She knew him?

She – _Natasha was it?_ – must have sensed his confusion because she reached into her pocket and pulled out some kind of card. It was in half, tattered and torn, but he recognised it as half a driver's license. The text on the page was barely legible, but sure enough 'Clinto' was staring at them.

Clinton. The 'n' was torn but he was sure that was it.

"Pulled it from your pocket when we got here." She started softly. She moved to place it on the cabinet by the bed. "Along with some money. It's safe in the kitchen if you need it."

"Thanks." He said dryly. His throat felt like a rock. "How long have I been out?"

"Twenty-nine hours." Natasha hummed after checking a pocket watch. Rarely saw a lady with one. "Wish it were longer but you strike me as the kind of man who'll be difficult to keep still for too long, Clint..?"

Natasha let his name trail, and when he looked to her she was staring at him with an eyebrow raised. She was waiting for a second name, waiting for her to inform him, and the sweat that was on him turned cold.

_Second name.. Come on, Clint. You know a first name, something should come from that!_

"Clint.." He said aloud, softly, slowly, testing the name on his tongue and waiting for another to follow. Nothing.

"You don't remember.." She said after a moment of silence. It took all he had - mentally and physically - to nod. "You remember anything? Age? Hometown?"

_Hometown. America somewhere? That doesn't count you idiot.. Small town.._

_Age? Damn, right now I feel around a hundred and three but that ain't it.._

With a frown, he shook his head. Her lips formed a tight line.

"Parents?" She pushed. "Mother, father, brothers, sisters?"

Family.. Something swam infront of his vision - green, bright lights..explosions?

_Are my family dead? Did something happen? Dammit why can't you remember!?_

"I don't know.." He whispered in a panic. He tried rise from the bed, he needed air, needed out of here. It was too warm, the blanket was too restricting, her damn hand was on his damn shoulder again and he just wanted out!

"Relax." She soothed, gently pushing him back to lie down. "Deep breaths. This happens sometimes, it's trauma Clint. It's going to be ok. Just breathe."

He did so. Her tone was soft, calm, if he knew her better he'd say caring. She placed her hand gently on his chest and moved it up and down, dictating his breathing. He found it worked. He began to calm down, his eyes slipping closed.

"Good." Natasha whispered after what seemed like an eternity. Probably only a few moments. "I assume you don't know, but mind if I ask why you were bleeding out in a ditch?"

He shifted uncomfortably. First time he could feel that bitch of a pain she mentioned in his calf.

Honestly, he had no idea. He couldn't recall anything that could have put him there. No reason as to why someone would want him dead or no person who could hate him that much in the first place.

She asked it in such a calm way. It confused him. He had no idea who she was or if this was some trap by the ones out to get him. He glanced around the room once more and a deeper frown settled on his features.

None of this made any sense. She made no sense. Something was wrong, his gut knew it, but his mind told him to just be grateful she saved his ass.

"I don't know." Clint croaked.

She nodded in understanding and poured him another glass of water. Her jaw tensed for just a moment as she passed the glass to him. She didn't believe Clint, and who could blame her for it?

"I've seen this in soldiers who cross our care sometimes." She said softly. When he downed the glass Natasha tucked the sheet around him a little more. "I think they try block out the event a little so their minds can rest."

_Soldiers.._

That was one of the options swimming in his mind. Could that be who he was? How could he find out?

A shaft of sunlight caught its tip before he noticed it. Whatever she had him on slowed his reflexes and senses something awful.

Only now could Clint see the hypodermic needle in her hand. He tried shimmy away as it approached his leg but he was too slow. A sharp inhale followed the prick as it pieced his skin.

Panic spread through him just like the liquid did.

_Afraid of needles.. Can't be a soldier if that's true!_

"What the hell is that?" He spat, trying his best to sit up. Her hand held a lot more force than before.

"Relax Clint.." Said Natasha softly. She guided him back to a lying position. "It'll help you sleep. You need it."

For a moment he tried to resist it, but his eyes were very quickly starting to droop as a numbness spread throughout him. He could just make out the shape of Natasha moving round him and a chilling sense of dread filled his senses.

_If she wanted to kill you or knew someone who did then you'd be six foot under right now! Get a grip!_

He let his eyes close as his mind began to shut everything down.

_Rest. Get your strength back._

_Then you can figure out who the hell you are. And what the hell you did to end up here._

An image, not the one he tried cling to before. No, this was a different one. Bullets shredded some stuffed dummies, a man laughed and pulled Clint from the weapon and to his feet. _We'll go back to celebrate!_ Bullets shredded some stuffed dummies, then his mind went black.


End file.
